


Making Murder

by macgyvershe



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Boredom, Ficlet, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, deducing on the fly, making murder, no not that fly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:43:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macgyvershe/pseuds/macgyvershe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is "bored"! So John, his soldier/genius feeds the hungry mind of the world's only consulting genius/idiot/detective with some food for thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Murder

“God, John, I’m so bored!” Sherlock had been idle for over a week now and he was in a right good snit.

“I’m not listening,” John replied rustling his newspapers and exhibiting complete and total disregard for anything Sherlock said.

“Please, call Lestrade, do something John.”

“I called Greg this morning, Sherlock, if there were anything new or interesting he would have texted or called us himself. Why don’t you get into one of your experiments or some of the other strangeness that litters the flat all the time?”

Sherlock huffed at the accusation that his experiments were strange and flounced around the room, rooting into things.

“Have you seen my patches?” He gave John his little-boy-lost pouty face.

“Immune to the pouty face, try another,” John said without even looking up at Sherlock.

Flinging himself onto the couch, crushing it to within an inch of its life, Sherlock stared at the ceiling with an intensity that would have ignited forests if there were any handy.

“I NEED WORK!” He ranted and took a breath so deep that it threatened to remove all the oxygen from the flat. 

“Hum, hum, hum.” John clears his throat and closes his eyes he tries very hard to find something in his mind that will alleviate his growing desire to throttle Sherlock.

“Maybe I should take you for a walk.” John was trying to come up with something to keep Sherlock from becoming a murderie and him, of course, the murderer. 

“I’m not some kind of dog, John!” Sherlock said in mild disgust.

“I could imagine you as an Afghan hound, but with long curly black hair. Jeeze, I think you’d be taller than me as an Afghan dog, too, come to think about it.” John pulled a frowny face and tried desperately to un-think that thought.

“John would you, _please_ , stop producing these idiotic projections that are, fundamentally, humorous when contemplated.” 

John looked up to find an abbreviated smile on Sherlock’s face. 

“Right then, get your coat and scarf on, we are going to look for murder!” 

“What?!?” Sherlock came to a sitting position and stared at John as if he’d grown several species of anomalous organisms on his face. 

“We are going on the hunt, we are going to be deducing people on the fly and looking for murderous intend, hah!” 

“John, you are magnificent, you are fantastic!” 

“Okay, let’s get on with it,” John was pulling on his coat and checking for his keys, “murderers are out there waiting.” 

Sherlock was like a giddy child, ramped up and ready to burst out of his skin. John had conjured up a game on, game. He was enthralled, engaged and definitely not bored.

Grabbing John by the wrist, Sherlock started out the door, down the steps and through the main door, trailing John like his very own personal remora. 

“Sherlock,” John was breathless from the run and the sudden exuberance of his companion’s ability to invigorate his life. “Sherlock let us find a good perch and start examining our subjects.” John was happy to see that light in Sherlock’s eyes that was the spark of excitement, acuity and genius/idiot that he knew and loved. 

They found a comfortable table at an outside café and were sipping on perfectly good tea with cream biscuits and John’s favorite jelly fills. Sherlock began the viewing and deducing. John pulled out his writing tablet and a pen just in case Sherlock actually found something or someone of note. 

“Accountant, fractious idiot with no ability to do much more that screw up your financials; unforgivable artist nerd with delusions of world conquest (the game), writer-in-training with a head full of stories and a crippling amount of self doubt; ah, John, nothing of any significance at all.” 

“Well, don’t give up you’ve only been at it for one minute, nine seconds. Go on, get on with it. Out loud, speak to me, tell me everyone’s secrets. I know you want to.”

So Sherlock went on and on, they found one petty thief, a pick-pocket and, yes, one potential murderer which they followed briefly to take information for Greg. They laughed at some of what they found and they mused over the outrageousness of the human race with its intricacies and its multitudinous masks of illusion. 

When they finally make it home to Baker Street the evening lights were coming on and the takeout arrives just after they do. The evening swallowed the remaining day without a sound; fed and mellowed by the day’s activities, Sherlock was in a much better mood, he looked at John as he finished clearing up the kitchen. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said with a genuine note of sincerity it his voice. “Thank you, John for being a good man, a tolerable flatmate and above all my very best and only friend.” He gave John a real smile, the one that he reserved for John and John alone. 

John turned and looked at the only genius in the room and promptly threw the dish towel at him. 

“You’re welcome. Take note, you had a bloody good time and you sharpened your deducing skills and we got out of the flat. So in the future we will make our own murder if we can’t have it delivered.” 

“In the future,” Sherlock thought out loud. “Living with your particular type of genius, John, has taught my intellect to bend before your wisdom. Though you haven’t the computer-like capacity in your brain that I find in mine; there is in you something beyond precious, something pervasive, perspicacious and quite capable of making me wonder how I ever managed without you?” 

“I’m sure it was deplorable. Just be thankful that I find your brand of idiocy quite enchanting.” John smiled self assuredly. “Just be careful that you don’t cross me. I have the power,” he said with proud distain.

“The power?” Sherlock was intrigued. 

“Anyone who can bend the intellect of Sherlock Holmes must be force to be reckoned with, don’t you think.” He didn’t need to puff himself up as he was already feeling quite a bit full of himself. 

“Yes, I can see you are going to be hell to live with for an interminable amount of time,” Sherlock was duly impressed. 

“Fear me,” John said with good humor. 

“Like no one else,” Sherlock said his rich baritone voice filled with love and taking up the dish towel he came after John and began chasing him around the kitchen table to capture this man with the power to change his heart.

 

    


End file.
